


The Sky Fills With Rain

by CyanideDaydreams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Clueless Sherlock, Feels, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Rain, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Makes Deductions, but not that kind of wet, john dislikes them, mrs hudson gets exasperated, sherlock experiences emotions, things get wet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyanideDaydreams/pseuds/CyanideDaydreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, I relied far too much on pathetic fallacy when writing this!<br/>It's my first fic, so be harsh as fuck and help me improve! Also I have no beta, so any spelling mistakes/grammatical errors are apologised for in advance!</p><p>In a nutshell, Sherlock makes deductions about John's feelings, John dislikes them, and things gets simultaneously angsty and fluffy..</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sky Fills With Rain

**Author's Note:**

> "With thick strokes of ink the sky fills with rain.  
> Pretending to run for cover but secretly praying for more rain.  
> Over the echo of the water, I hear a voice saying my name.  
> No one in the city moves under the quick sightless rain.  
> ...  
> If I open my mouth now, I could drown in the rain."  
> ~ Kazim Ali

“Ergo… it was the housekeeper”  
John peered around the door, shopping in hand. ‘Eh?’  
‘It was the houseskeeper’ Sherlock snapped impatiently, flopping backwards into his armchair. He sighed irritably through flared nostrils.  
‘God, does Lestrade have nothing stimulating to give me?’  
John shouldered through the door and dumped the heavy bag onto the table.  
“Sorry, Sherlock, I’m not following you—”  
“I’m astounded”, Sherlock muttered.  
John ignored the dig.  
“I thought you were working on that poisoning case?”  
“Easy. Introduced into the system by the mother, poisoned breast milk”.  
“Ah.” John put the milk in the fridge, sighing as he resigned himself to the prospect of entertaining a bored Sherlock. Never fun.  
Collapsing into his favourite chair, John noticed Sherlock’s skull sitting on a pile of pillows that had been stuffed into john’s favourite jumper. He looked at Sherlock, raising a questioning eyebrow.  
“I call him Unlucky John” Sherlock remarked, climbing over the back of his own armchair to reach his laptop.  
“Wh—Unlucky—What?!”  
“It’s you, if the sniper had better aim.”  
John glared at Sherlock, yanking his jumper off the pillows. The skull clattered loudly to the floor and seemed to peer accusingly at him.  
“Watch my skull!”  
“Sod your skull, Sherlock! I find this bloody insensitive, and that’s my favourite jumper.  
“Really?’ Sherlock picked the skull up and balanced it on deft fingertips.  
‘I find him to be more stimulating than you. He doesn’t insist that I slow myself down by explaining everything,” he remarked absently, giving the skull an appraising look, before tossing it onto the sofa, and tapping out a brief email to Lestrade.  
“Housekeeper. Haven’t you got anything better? Even you could have worked this one out.  
\- SH”  
“Sherlock, you really shouldn’t antagonise Greg like you do, he’s kind enough to give you time on his crime scenes”  
‘Kind enough? He needs me. I’m accountable for at least half of the convictions the Yard manages to make each year.’  
John rolled his eyes.  
‘I’m not looking forward to the year they all get out of prison’.  
‘It won’t be at the same time, John, they’re serving different sentences… arson, murder, rape, cannibalism…’  
‘It was a joke, Sherlo---wait cannibalism?!’  
‘And rape.’  
Sherlock peered at John vacantly, his mind already humming over a new experiment.  
‘He was a most engaging killer. Different method every time. Absolutely fascinating.’  
John liked to think himself reasonably desensitised to Sherlock’s lack of self-censorship, but even he gaped at this last comment.  
It took a moment for the consulting detective to notice John’s shocked expression, as he was already mentally calculating ethanol solutions.  
‘Not good?’ he asked after a moment of silence.  
‘Erm, quite a bit not good, Sherlock…’  
A distracted ‘hmmph’ was the only reply he got.

-

John filled the kettle, and flicked it on to boil. He tutted absently at the new stains on the table and sent up a quick prayer of thanks that Sherlock hadn’t left live bacteria on the wooden surface again. Or, at least, there were no obvious signs of any.  
Listening to the kettle start to grumble into life, he leant against the counter and watched Sherlock contemplatively. The man was muttering to himself good naturedly, knees drawn up under his chin, fingers tapping against the arm of the sofa.  
He was lucky, John mused, that Lestrade automatically accepted his deductions as gospel. Particularly since the leaps of logic required to arrive at his, often farfetched, conclusions seemed to make sense to few others.  
Sally Donovan’s words suddenly echoed through his thoughts.  
‘One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes’ll be the one who put it there...’ she remarked cryptically in his ear.  
‘Why?’ John heard his own voice question.  
 _‘He’s a psychopath… psychopaths get bored’_ came the answer.  
 _‘I call him Unlucky John…’_  
 _He could kill me_ , John pondered. _A quick acting poison, with the amount of stuff he always has lying around here, he could easily kill me and make it look accidental._  
Heck, with his brain, he could murder me in cold blood and probably make it look like my own mother had done it… Lestrade would believe whatever deduction Sherlock offered.  
The kettle whistled shrilly, demanding attention and almost causing John to leap clean out of his own skin. Heart hammering from the unexpected intrusion into his thoughts, he grabbed the mugs and began to pour the scalding water.  
 _I'm letting Donovan get into my brain,_ he thought. _I shouldn't do that._ He shook his head, muttering to himself.  
He felt guilty for distrusting his friend, but then, he had once come home to a head in the fridge, on more than one occasion.  
'Two sugars please.'  
The detective's voice behind him made John start for a second time. The steaming water sloshed over his fingers and he yelped, shaking his hand reflexively.  
'Christ', he groaned, the skin on his calloused hands reddening. Sherlock seized him and dragged him to the sink, shoving his hands under the tap. Pausing only for a moment to remove two bloodied thumbs in a bowl of ice –oh, that's where they'd gotten to - before plunging John's hands under the icy spray.  
'Idiot.' Sherlock muttered, fingers tight around John's wrist. John felt a slight heat in his cheeks at the sudden closeness, despite the tap flecking droplets of cold water onto his shirt. He glanced cautiously at Sherlock, noticing for the first time the subtle scent of tea and soap that clung to him as he leaned across to turn off the tap. He dried John's fingers, muttering vaguely about natural selection clearly not being down to an ability to use hot water.  
'Are you alright?' he asked, concern obvious even under the note of impatience in his tone.  
John grimaced, flexing his stinging fingers. 'Better than I would have been', he murmured, abashed. 'Thanks'.  
Sherlock made an impatient gesture, waving away John's gratitude. 'What were you so distracted with? Are you suddenly incapable of performing basic tasks without giving yourself third degree burns? Or is it only me who has mastered the ability to multi-task?'  
John's eyes slid sideways as he avoided Sherlock's gaze. It was a mistake; the detective eyes narrowed, placing John under the full force of their scrutiny. John resisted the urge to squirm.  
‘Pupils dilated…’ Sherlock said, speaking slowly as he deduced, ‘I’d say it was the late hour of night, but it’s bright in here; skin flushed… avoiding eye contact. Signs of arousal.’  
John scoffed, suddenly nervous. ‘Aren’t you going to take my pulse?’ he joked, awkwardly.  
‘I don’t need to’, Sherlock muttered. ‘I can see it throbbing in your neck.’  
John flushed angrily, his hand flying instinctively to his neck.  
‘Oh, for god sake, Sherlock…’  
‘What’s going on, John?’  
'N—I don’t know, Sherlock, just...'  
Sherlock frowned, confused. ‘Was I wrong? You're exhibiting all the signs of--’  
‘Stop it.’  
‘Stop what?’  
‘That!' John snapped. 'That fucking thing you do. There are no secrets with you, Sherlock. Nothing is private! Do you have no boundaries at all?!’  
'John—' Sherlock lunged for his wrist as John tried to turn away.  
'John, I didn't mean...'  
'Can't you just leave well enough alone? For once in your goddamn life?!' John snapped, wrenching his arm from Sherlock's grasp. Swearing angrily, he turned, and slammed out of 221b, face scarlet with embarrassment.

-

The silence hung heavy around Sherlock after John's departure, and he looked down at his hand. A trickle of scarlet stained the paper white fingers. John must have scratched him in his desperation to escape. Lifting his hand slowly to his mouth, he sucked the blood away, wandering out of the kitchen and throwing himself onto the sofa.  
 __  
 **'Do you have no boundaries at all?'**

He'd deduced more about John than a state of arousal before, what was John's sudden issue with his methods?  
He was snapped out of his sulk by Mrs. Hudson tapping timidly on the door.  
'Sherlock?'  
He didn't reply, glaring at the ceiling. Emotions. They made humans so damn irrational. And John wondered why Sherlock had chosen to divorce himself from them. The door opened.  
‘Sherlock… what’s going on love?’  
‘Nothing important, Mrs. Hudson.’  
‘Now really, dear, I may not be quite up to your level but even I can work out you and John have argued.’  
‘I merely pointed out unusual physiological symptoms John was exhibiting to try to get his input on it.’  
Mrs. Hudson tutted at him.  
‘What data would that be dear?’ she called over her shoulder, as she bustled into the kitchen to tidy up.  
‘Oh! Thumbs!’ she shrieked as she glanced into the sink.  
She reappeared in the doorway, looking indignant.  
‘Honestly, Sherlock! Do you know how lucky you are to have found John?! I don’t know who else would live with you, you’re dreadful!’  
‘Yes, I’ve often thought that myself—oh.’  
 _He puts up with me, listens, helps, trusts me, even when the evidence was against me, he never questioned… signs of attraction, but none of overt lust—Oh._  
Sherlock stood, swiftly unhooking his coat and sweeping from the flat.

-

The rain had started pattering onto the pavement only a minute ago, but within moments John had been soaked. He ducked beneath the dripping leaves of an ash tree, shivering, his shirt sticking clammily to his goosepimpled skin.  
 _'I'm an idiot'_ , he thought, miserably. God. So much for being able to think on his feet. He should've played it off, joked about it, or made some vague comment about it having been a while, or...  
Or what?  
Sherlock would have seen through whatever excuse he might have concocted.  
 _'I didn't want to face this. I don't want things to change...'_ he thought wretchedly.  
He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to convince himself that the couple of warm drops that leaked down his face were only rain.  
 _‘It'll all be over now'_ , he thought bitterly. Sherlock would think of him as a liability, a hindrance, assume him unable to make rational choices.  
He looked up at the leaves, and smiled weakly to himself. He was sitting under a tree, at ten in the evening, in a thin shirt, in the rain. Maybe the imaginary Sherlock had a point.

-

The first droplets of rain hit the ground just as Sherlock closed the front door on 221 with a snap. He frowned upwards, as though the weather had chosen precipitation just to spite him. 'Perfect,' he muttered irritably, buttoning his coat up to his scarf.  
Where would John have gone? Normally he went to a girlfriend's place when he was sick of Sherlock, but there was no current girlfriend. In fact, Sherlock realised with a jolt, there hadn’t been one for at least three months.  
 _‘So, no girlfriend_ ,’ Sherlock considered, wandering along the pavement, _‘it’s late at night; shops are closed… Harry’s? No…’_  
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden increase in the ferocity of the downpour.  
Grimacing impatiently he hurried across the road, and ducked into Queen Mary’s Gardens. Taking shelter under a tree, he wiped water from his eyes.  
John couldn’t have gone far; Sherlock had been no more than four minutes behind him. But with his vision impaired by the rain and the darkness the search would be difficult. He raked his wet hair off his face, and closed his eyes, replaying the last moments before John left, looking for hints.  
In his head, John slammed the door, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze; upset, face flushed red. No coat, thin shirt, definitely no umbrella. He wouldn’t have gone far then, not with the bite in the air accompanying the downpour. These factors considered, it was likely John might have sheltered in the park himself. Sighing, and screwing up his eyes against the water, Sherlock stepped out into the rain.

-

John sat in the dark, shivering and trying to work up the courage to head back to Baker Street. Even his knowledge of medicine telling him he’d make himself ill didn’t shift him. He let his head fall back against the knobbed grain of the tree, and stared miserably out into the dark rain.  
 _The longer I stay here, the longer I can pretend nothing will have changed._  
He jumped at a sudden crunching noise behind him, and turned in time to see Sherlock flop down beside him, dimly lit by the streetlamp, hair plastered to his forehead.  
‘Oh god, Sher—’ he tried to scramble to his feet, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze, but his limbs were stiff from the cold. He staggered a little, and was pulled back down to sit against the tree.  
‘Sit down, John,’ Sherlock commanded.  
Resigning himself to the inevitable, John sank back and fell silent.  
Sherlock shifted next to him, leaning against the roots of the old tree.  
They both looked out at the sheets of rain, obscuring everything beyond a few metres from the nearby streetlight.  
‘So… lovely weather for a stroll’, Sherlock remarked.  
John glanced at him, allowing the corners of his mouth to twitch into a grin, but didn’t reply.  
‘You know’, Sherlock said, softly, ‘a lot of things make sense now. The way you risked your life for me at the swimming pool, your disappointment in me for my cold behaviour during Moriarty’s little game…’  
‘Yeah, well’, muttered John, ‘I shouldn’t have been surprised.’  
‘Oh?’ Sherlock turned his head a little, glancing over at John.  
‘Well,’ John cleared his throat, ‘emotions, caring about people, it’s hardly your area, is it?’  
Sherlock smiled a little at the throwback from their first night together.  
‘It was my own fault for forgetting that—’  
‘No,’ Sherlock interrupted, ‘John, don’t ever think that I don’t care about you.’  
‘Sherlock…’  
Sherlock turned, meeting John’s gaze for the first time since he’d sat down next to him.  
‘I’m serious, John, don’t ever think that you don’t matter to me.’  
‘I…’ John found he had nothing to say, and averted his eyes, rubbing icy hands over his clammy forearms. Sherlock stood, slipping off his thick coat, and wrapping it around John’s shuddering shoulders.  
‘No, Sherlock, really, I’m fine…’  
‘You’re not fine. Don’t be an idiot.’ Sherlock murmured, crouching down, cold fingers cupping John’s cheek to stop him turning away.  
‘John…’  
‘Don’t’, John muttered, a pained expression flitting across his face. ‘I can’t… I can’t go there…’  
Sherlock gazed at him enquiringly; thumb gently stroking the damp cheek.  
‘I…Sherlock, you tire of things like a child tires of toys. I can’t bear to watch you get bored of me. I—I can’t do it. I’d rather remain as we are.’  
‘Really? This is making you happy?’  
‘Of course not, but… at least you’re in my life!’ John replied desperately, ‘Even if I’m only your flatmate who nags you for leaving body parts in the kitchen!  
And about that, for god’s sake, Sherlock, could you at least try and keep them away from the food…’ His voice trailed away as he noticed how close they were, Sherlock’s forehead almost touching his own, his breath ghosting across John’s lips. The coat pressed warmly around him, thick with the scent of tobacco, of rain, of… Sherlock.  
He licked his lips anxiously and desperately avoided Sherlock’s eyes.  
‘John… look at me.’  
‘I—I can’t. I can’t be cast aside by you, Sherlock…’  
Sherlock slipped a hand under John’s chin, tilting his face upwards.  
‘What makes you think I could ever do that…’ he murmured, pressing his forehead against John’s.  
Breath hitching in his throat, John tugged away from the gentle touch, biting his lip nervously, before looking up into the other’s patient face, and finally reaching up to press a tremulous kiss to Sherlock’s lips.  
Sherlock smiled into the kiss, wrapping his arms around John as he felt the tremor in his mouth. It was only the briefest touch of icy lips, but Sherlock felt heat spread through his chest, warming the heart he was so sure he didn’t have.  
John smiled tentatively up at him, eyes hopeful, the fingers of one cold hand tangled into his curls. Seized by a rush of affection, Sherlock kissed the icy palm.  
‘I’ve got you, John’, he whispered, his voice barely audible above the rain.  
 _John…_  
My John. __  
‘I’ve got you.’


End file.
